


Knock, Knock

by SeithSpinner



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeithSpinner/pseuds/SeithSpinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a very short mini-fic posted on my tumblr a while back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock, Knock

Dust, everything is dust, heat, and noise. Noise so powerful he will hear it even in silence for the rest of his life - a thin, high, ring in his left ear. He is hunched over, the sole advantage he has ever found to being short in the field, and he is hiding. He hears the shallow, high, pops of gunfire. Someone who was next to him isn't anymore, and where are they? A few meters back, dead. He didn't even register that it had happened - _God no_ \- and then it happens again.

"OH GOD! Don't le-" John Watson shouts, bolting upright in bed. He’s clutching at his shoulder, gasping for breath. Tears already streaming down his face. He took three cleansing breaths and repeated to himself "… It’s just a dream." _Knock knock._

* * *

 

 

John had gone to bed three hours earlier, and Sherlock noodled quietly on the violin. In five minutes, it would happen. He sat down the delicate instrument, retrieved the box of biscuits, set out the tea tray, and put the kettle on. Just before it whistled he swept it off of the heat and filled the tea pot. He sat with his hands steepled until “OH GOD!" rang from the upstairs room. He counted to three, slowly, and ascended to the second room. Outside of the door he tousled his hair, took three, large, gulping breaths to raise his respiration and heart-rate. _Knock knock._

"John, are you up?" Sherlock asked, sounding manic and bored.

The ex-soldier rolled his eyes, gripping at the front of his shirt, over his scar. It felt like it was bleeding, but he knew it was not. “Well, I am now, what?” Haughty, angry, thin tonality of panic.

"Well, then what I’m about to do won’t keep you up. Excellent." And with that the detective shot back down the stairs. Trap baited, victory assured.

"What on- SHERLOCK! What on earth are you planning?" John spat, rising and wrapping himself in a housecoat.

The detective smiled, seating himself back in his chair with the Violin. The tea emitting a thin curl of steam from the spout of the pot, the tray laid out nicely. The look on John’s face when he sees it, followed by the wetting of his lips. The living room was quiet for the next hour. Sherlock played slow, soothing, melodies, and talked in his deep, booming, timbre. When the replies to Sherlock cease, the playing becomes even more quiet, but the questions don’t stop. John finally nods off, smiling peacefully as night becomes morning. By nine, the taller man’s voice has become hoarse around the edges, and strained. His fingers are practically numb.

When he notes the time he sets the violin down softly, and clears his throat. "Of course, given that I’ve already solved it, I suppose further reflection is a moot point" he finishes, far louder than he had been - but not by any means a shout.

John stretches, yawns, and smiles. “Right, right” he says, as if he hasn’t been sleeping for the last six hours. He leans into a fond pat on his shoulder “I nodded off, didn’t hear a word of what you said, Sherlock. Sorry.”

"Oh? Well. You might’ve, it’s three past nine. Did you have a shift today?" Sherlock asks, helpfully.

"Oh god! I do! I need to have a shower, and a shave. Argh!" He sprints from the chair, and into the bathroom. "Why did you ever let me sleep so late, Sherlock!"

In the kitchen, the taller, leaner, man rests his head against the counter. The tea cups in neat row, by date of manufacture, then value, then color, then personal preference. His eyes are pinked with fatigue. He mentally counts - John woke screaming at 2:15am, he was asleep again at 3:19am. He woke at 9:03am. If he is right, his flatmate was gifted with almost six perfect hours of sleep. _Six, perfect, hours._


End file.
